I'm Still Here
by ImpishTubist
Summary: After the night at the pool ends in tragedy, Sherlock Holmes goes out looking for a distraction. He finds one in a certain grieving time-traveler. Slash & implied sex.


_Author's Note: Timelines have been slightly rearranged so that season 1 of Sherlock takes place just before the ending of "Day Five" of Children of Earth; major spoilers. Not meant to be related to my other Sherlock/Whoniverse crossover, but I suppose they could potentially take place in the same AU. Feedback always welcome. _

XXXX

The bar is near-capacity tonight; the palpable cheer, grating. The after-work crowd has rendered it dark and hazy and they stand in tight clumps around the high tables, each person attempting to out-talk the next. They are tedious and predictable, betraying their insignificant life stories in a single gesture or word. He passes through them unnoticed and untouched; the crowd parts subconsciously to let him through, moving as though it is a single entity.

Hateful, really, the way these people carry on, as though the world hadn't ended.

He stops just short of the bar, drink in hand, and eyes his target. There is a man sitting there who is as out of place as he – and, oh yes, Sherlock Holmes is acutely aware of his isolation– but the difference between them is that this man _cares_. It nags at him, this seclusion, eating away at the very core of his being while Sherlock thrives off of his, flaunting it like a badge of honor.

A woman's laugh, loud and tinkling, rings high above the din. She is standing next to him and flirting mercilessly with her male companion. Sherlock reads the two of them in a glance, heaving a sigh at the simplicity of it all. He knocks back the rest of his drink and leans behind her to place it on the bar.

"You do realize that he's married?" he murmurs in her ear, knowing full well that she does not. Her companion, caught, pales in an instant and Sherlock watches with supreme if brief satisfaction as the betrayed woman storms out abruptly.

The laughter is gone; no longer could it cloud his mind. He draws a sharp breath through his nose and moves to the bar, taking the sole empty stool. Smoke stings his nostrils and for the first time that evening he can _think_.

His dark-haired target is on the stool next to him, tall and broad and unremarkable except for the fact that he obviously frequents the place three times a week (four times if he can justify losing a Saturday afternoon to the place as well). He had relocated from Cardiff not six months before and lives in an apartment three blocks from the bar. He had left his previous job with – Sherlock steals a second glance to confirm it – the government abruptly and is currently unemployed.

How predictable.

"You come here often."

"And you don't." The man - an American – pauses and nurses his drink. When it becomes obvious that Sherlock isn't about to leave him alone, he says, "You got a name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The man snorts. "You say it like it's supposed to impress me."

"It should."

The man laughs darkly. "Oh, no. I've spent too much of my life with a Holmes breathing down my neck to be impressed. Is he your brother, then? Mycroft? Must be. Though I have to say –" the man reaches out and traces a long finger over an exquisite cheekbone; Sherlock does not flinch. " – you are _much_ easier on the eyes than he. I've always wondered what a Holmes would be like in bed." He draws the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, leers, and then turns back to his drink. "Probably damned in sufferable."

Sherlock remains unfazed. When he is bored, which is always, he sometimes hacks into Mycroft's secret files. Torchwood itself works very little to keep secret – after all, very few would take an organization dedicated to hunting aliens seriously – but its leader remains an enigma; a man whose very existence does not make sense, who cannot be summarized in a phrase or read in a glance.

"And what do I call you?"

"Captain will do."

"Captain Jack Harkness, I should think," Sherlock says, brandishing the ID he had lifted from the man not seconds before and then tosses it on the bar next to his glass. It is only for effect; he has known the man's name for years. "You are hardly that, but yes, "Captain" will suffice. Now, who was it?"

"What are you going on about?" the man mutters into his glass, but he immediately tenses at the question.

"Who was it you – oh. Lover, of course. It's quite obvious. Though it wasn't recently – no. No more than two years ago, but no more recently than six months. Am I right?"

"How many have you had, fella?" the man growls.

"I'm right, aren't I? Yes, of course. I'm always right." Sherlock pauses a moment to accept a fresh drink from the bartender. He curls his fingers around the cool glass, though he has no intention of consuming more alcohol. He does not want to run the risk of interfering with this oh-so-delightful distraction. "So who was he? Oh, don't look so surprised; how tedious. It's quite obvious that you're – "

"Oh, you people and your quaint little _categories_," the man snaps suddenly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Well, I was going to say _in mourning_, but I suppose that assumption works just as well."

"Fuck off."

Sherlock gives a bark of a laugh and tosses back his head. "Oh, you blame yourself for his death! How wonderfully typical."

"Listen, pal." The man seizes him by the front of the shirt and yanks him closer. "Are you trying to start something here? Because I don't know if you've bothered to notice, but I _think_ I can take you on."

Sherlock laughs again, wild and hollow, and slams his fist into the man's face. The captain reels, releasing him abruptly and bringing his hand to his nose, which is now spurting blood.

"All right, that's enough!" the bartender breaks in, snatching both of their glasses from the bar as heads turn and others begin to take notice of the commotion.

"Outside, the both of you." He turns away then, muttering under his breath and assuming Sherlock cannot hear. "Honestly, every night; think you'd have something better to do."

Sherlock stands, smoothing his shirt and drawing his coat tightly around him. He is halfway to the door before he turns back to the captain, eyes flashing from the hollows of his face. He then sweeps out like a whirlwind, coat swinging about him, and Jack finds there is nothing else to do but follow.

XXXX

They make it back to Sherlock's flat, but only just; Sherlock loses his scarf – _gray, soft, knitted by Mrs Hudson_ – in front of the pub and Jack's coat – _army-issue, circa WWII, authentic and yet less than a year old (impossible, of course)_ – is abandoned on the railing outside 221b.

Sherlock is barely over the threshold before Jack is on him with all the violence suppressed back at the pub. The kiss is searing and vicious and twice their teeth knock together as each fights the other for control, Jack standing on tip-toe and trying to drag the other man down in order to plunder his mouth. Sherlock seizes two fistfuls of the man's shirt, pulling him close and then shoving him away when the need for air becomes too great. Jack stumbles backward and Sherlock lands a blow to his jaw; something cracks, and the captain jerks backwards. He regains his composure quickly and retaliates, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders and sending him crashing into the nearest wall.

Sherlock's head lands with a dull _thud_ and his teeth cut into his cheek but there is no time to recover as Jack flies at him once again, clutching him by the head and slamming their mouths together. Sherlock pushes away from the wall with his free hand; the other hand tangles itself in Jack's hair, holding fast, pulling so hard that the older man lets out a strangled groan; Sherlock swallows it eagerly. Their tongues dance like rapiers, striking fast and drawing away, a bloodless battle that ends without a victor when Jack pulls away. He is still holding Sherlock by his shirt and the other man is holding onto his wrists; Jack notes with satisfaction the bruised lips, the glassy eyes. He leans in, tilting his head, but does not meet the swollen lips. Sherlock, left hanging, lets out a strangled noise as seconds tick by.

Jack's lips finally graze Sherlock's; the man growls and shoves him backwards. In the darkness- and their haste – they neglect to mind the furniture scattered about the room. The back of Jack's knees collide with a table and they tumble to the ground, rolling as one, and when it is over Jack ends up on top, pinning Sherlock with his knees. He seizes the lithe wrists of the man beneath him and slams them onto the floor above Sherlock's head. His grin is wolfish, glinting dangerously in the moonlight.

Sherlock snarls. His knee catches Jack at the base of his spine and he bodily flips the man off of him. Jack lands hard on his back with a yelp, having aggravated an old injury, and when his vision clears Sherlock is looming over him. The harsh lamplight from the street catches the angles of his face, drawing them out icy and sharp against the shadowed planes of his cheeks, and the sight renders Jack utterly breathless.

Sherlock ducks his head and presses his lips to the hollow of Jack's throat, tender and searing all at once; the captain loses all sense of himself.

Jack makes a quip later about being nearly a century too old for sex on the floor. He has been careless with his words tonight, he knows, especially around the likes of a Holmes. Mycroft, the brother, has been a thorn in Torchwood's side for going on two decades now. Jack would be far from surprised if, when he finally returns to his temporary flat, the elder Holmes is there with the nameless assistant who remains impervious to his flirtations, ready with a solid scolding.

_Did you hear your baby brother, Mycroft?_ Jack thinks darkly, already convinced that the flat has been bugged. He traces a hand lightly over the alabaster knee of the man beside him. _Did you hear him bellow until his throat was raw, begging for more?_

Sherlock is sitting up against the couch, legs crossed and extended before him, stark naked and pecking away impatiently on his phone. An unlit cigarette dangles loosely from his lips. Jack is sprawled flat on the floor beside him. A breeze from an open window softens the oppressive heat in the flat and stirs the sweat-laden locks on his forehead.

"So who was it?" Jack asks carelessly, for Sherlock knows all about the aliens who killed his lover – _no, Jack, you did that_ – and it really is only fair he be told the story of the man he is replacing tonight. He says as much when Sherlock remains silent, to which the detective replies, "I observed; I did not ask. There is a difference."

"What's your story, Sherlock?" Jack presses, unsatisfied with the non-answers.

Sherlock tosses the phone aside and pulls a discarded box of matches out from under the couch. "What makes you think I have one?"

Jack sits up and curls himself around the taller man, hips to thighs to knees, and as he drapes an arm across the sharp shoulders he marvels at how well it _fits_. The thought hits him like a blow, and he shoves it quickly back under the rock it had the nerve to crawl out from under.

"You're not the only one capable of observation," Jack says in a low voice. He leans in and nips at Sherlock's earlobe. "There's an extra coat on the coatrack several sizes too small for a man of your height. Same for that jumper on the back of the chair and the one draped over the arm of the couch. They're too properly positioned; almost as if they're on display. Was he a lover?"

"No."

"Hmm." Jack traces a fresh scar that runs the length of Sherlock's back, from shoulder to hip, angry and raw. "You've been in hospital recently. He never made it out, did he?" A ripple goes through the skin beneath his fingers. "Or – he's still there. Traumatic brain injury, perhaps. When did they tell you he was never coming home?"

He presses his lips to the curve of Sherlock's neck, tasting salt. "When did 'I'll tell him tomorrow' turn into weeks and months and years until suddenly all your tomorrows were used up?"

A grim silence follows the question, thick and deadly, but the moment for attack comes and goes and Sherlock relaxes suddenly under his touch, a barrier having slid smoothly into place.

"You'll never know, I'm afraid," Sherlock says coolly. He lights the cigarette and smokes in silence for a while.

"Don't be so sure."

Sherlock smirks. "Oh, I am. See, you're leaving in the morning, and you have no intention of returning."

Jack stiffens. "How could you have possibly known that?"

"Your fingernails."

Jack sits back again. "I won't even try to puzzle that one out – "

"Good. You wouldn't have been able to."

" – but yes, I'm leaving." He hesitates, and then plunges ahead. It hardly matters, since Sherlock wouldn't remember in the morning anyway. "There's a man I need to find."

"The madman with a box," Sherlock supplies. At Jack's look he says, "I've heard stories," and the answer is loaded with implications Jack does not even want to begin to pursue. Sherlock grinds his cigarette out on the floor and flicks it away.

"I wouldn't take you as the kind to put stock into such stories," Jack says simply.

"I never said that I did." Sherlock lights another cigarette, brings it to his lips. Jack drops his head so that it rests in the crook of Sherlock's neck; Sherlock leans into him ever so slightly and passes the cigarette.

"And if I told you the stories were true?" Jack says between draws. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, long and elegant, an odd mixture of disbelief and – hope.

"Then I would say that you are madder than even I."

"I'll take that chance." Jack grinds the cigarette out on the low table. "Have anything to drink around here?" he asks suddenly, pulling himself to his feet and offering a hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock furrows his brow, suspicious, and ignores the proffered hand. He rises in one swift motion and stalks off to the kitchen, Jack in tow.

They speak little, with Jack carrying most of the conversation, babbling on about Weevils and pterodactyls as though Sherlock is supposed to know what the _hell_ it all means, and when Sherlock turns to place the bottle back in the cabinet Jack passes a hand over his glass and slips in a small pill that dissolves in an instant.

"Cheers," he says with a forced smile. Sherlock frowns again and drinks deeply without acknowledging the toast.

Jack sips his own drink half-heartedly, wishing he could allow this strange man to remember, if only so that he - for once – did not have to carry the burden alone.

Sherlock catches him staring and turns away, grimacing.

XXXX

He wakes in the morning in his own bed, mouth full of cotton and head pounding out an erratic beat. For several moments he sits there, grasping desperately at the tendrils of memory that threaten to escape from him. He can remember little after the bar – mostly whispers and snatches of images, but whether they are real or figments of a dream, he cannot not tell.

It is useless to try to scrounge up memories that are not there and so he does not waste the energy. He will find clues, no doubt, scattered throughout the flat. If necessary, he will retrace his steps and deduce from there. This has happened no less than three times in recent months and was not worth the trouble of worrying over. The memories probably are not even worth recovering, anyway; useless, because they would not contain the person whose life had made his worth all the pain.

He dresses in silence, slips into his coat, and leaves the flat for the final time.

Captain Jack Harkness will not miss this planet.

XXXX

Sherlock stands before the window, hands buried deep in the pockets of his robe. Jack had taken his leave hours ago and no doubt would be waking now, fuzzy and disoriented, just like all the times before.

They are all so predictable in the end; creatures of habit and routine. Like John, who always wore his comfortable jumpers and hair parted just so and who liked his tea promptly at 9, thank you very much. Predictable like Jack, who sat on the same stool of the same bar and looked perplexed every time Sherlock approached him for the first-but-not-really time. Jack, who smelled of tobacco and that coat and who always tried to retcon him after the night's activities.

Yet, perhaps not quite so predictable. Again there was John who, with all his rigid bearing and seemingly steadfast traditions, had given away at times to unpredictable non-conventionality. Life with him had been a constant guessing game. And there was also Jack, with his tales of the wandering god and who, like the madman he was so fond of, was a man out of time and place.

They had kept the boredom at bay when it threatened to consume him whole and now there is nothing but static; an empty mind. A dying mind.

Sherlock stands before the window as the cool, gray night rushes onward toward dawn. He presses his forehead to the icy glass with a hiss, and then the palms of both hands, and the cold gives way to fire; fire burning in his veins, singeing his nerves, forcing him to _feel_.

Time is a fickle thing; that much he knows from Jack – an unforgiving mistress to mere mortals. But to the man with the box, time must be the most glorious of objects. All of existence at one's fingertips; everyone who ever was and whoever is and whoever will be, all alive at once. There are places and times where they do not exist and yet places where they do, and so no one truly dies. They are always there, locked in place, waiting.

The scream of a tea kettle sounds from some great distance, reedy and thin, drowning out for a brief but glorious moment the white noise that fills his mind.

He breathes.

XXXX


End file.
